as clean as they come. There was something about the blankets that made you keep them away from your chin, but that could have been just prejudice. The light was nothing wonderful, but good enough to read by for thirty days.
I didn't really get acquainted with my surroundings or my mate until Monday, I was so darned sleepy when they finally finished with me down below and showed me up to my room. They had been insistent but not ferocious. I had been allowed to phone Fritz that I wouldn't be home, which was a good thing, as there was no telling what he would have done with no word from me coming on top of Wolfe's fade out, and also to try to call Nathaniel Parker, the only lawyer Wolfe has ever been willing to invite to dinner; but that was no go because he was away for the week-end. When at last I stretched out on the cot, I was dead to the world ten seconds after my head hit the pillow, consisting of my trousers wrapped in my shirt.
It was the trousers, or rather the coat and vest that went with them, that made my stay pleasanter than it might have been right from the start. I had had perhaps half as much sleep as I could have used when a hell of a noise banged at me and I lifted my head and opened my eyes. Across the cell on another cot, so far away that I would have had to stretch my arm its full length to touch him, was my cell mate-a broad-shouldered guy about my age, maybe a little older, with a mop of tousled black hair. He was sitting up, yawning.
“What's all the racket? I asked. “Jail break?
“Breakfast and check-up in ten minutes, he replied, getting his feet, with socks on, to the floor. “Stupid custom.
“Boneheads, I agreed, twisting up to sit on the edge of the cot.
Going to the chair where his wardrobe was, his glance fell on my chair, and he stepped to it for a look at the coat and vest. He fingered the lapel, looked inside at the lining, and inspected a buttonhole. Then, without comment, he returned to his side, two whole steps, and started to dress. I followed suit.
“Where do we wash? I inquired.
“After breakfast, he replied, “if you insist.
A man in uniform appeared on the other side of the bars and used his hands, and the cell door swung open.
“Wait a minute, Wilkes, my mate told him, and then asked me, “You cleaned out?
“Naturally. This is a modern jail.
“Would bacon and eggs suit you?
“Just right.
“Toast white or rye?
“White.
“Our tastes are similar. Make it two, Wilkes. Two of everything.
“As you say, the turnkey said distinctly, and went. My mate, getting his necktie under his shirt collar, told me, “They won't allow exceptions to the turnout and checkup, but you can pass up the garbage. We'll eat here in privacy.
This, I said earnestly, “is the brotherhood of man. I would like this breakfast to be on me when I get my wallet back.
He waved it away. “Forget it.
The turnout and check-up, I discovered, were not to be taken as opportunities for conversation. There were around forty of us, all shapes and sizes, and on the whole we were frankly not a blue-ribbon outfit. The smell of the breakfast added to the disinfectant was enough to account for the expressions on the faces, not counting whatever it was that had got them there, and it was a relief to get back to my cosy cell with my mate.
We had our hands and faces washed, and he had his teeth brushed, when the breakfast came on a big clean aluminium tray. The eats were barely usable if you took Fritz's productions as a standard, but compared with the community meal which I had seen and smelled they were a handsome feast. My mate having ordered two of everything, there were two morning Gazettes, and before he even touched his orange juice he took his paper and, with no glance at the front page, turned to sports. Finishing his survey of the day's prospects, he drank some orange juice and inquired, “Are you interested in the rapidity of horses?
“In a way. I added earnestly, “I like the way you talk. I enjoy being with cultured people.
He gave me a suspicious look, saw my honest candid countenance, and relaxed.
“That's natural. Look at your clothes.
We were on the chairs, with the little wooden table between us. It was comfortable enough except that there was no room to prop up our morning papers.
He flattened his out, still open at sports, on the end of the cot, and turned to it while disposing of a bite of food. I arranged mine, front page, on my knee.
In the picture of Mrs Rackham the poor woman looked homelier than she had actually been, which was a darned shame even though she wasn't alive to see it.
Wolfe's name and mine both appeared in the subheads under the three-column spread about the murder. I glanced at the bottom, followed the instructions to turn to page four, and there saw more pictures. The'one of Wolfe was only fair, making him look almost bloated, but the one of me was excellent. There was one of a Doberman pinscher standing at attention. It was captioned Hebe, which I doubted. The play in the text on Wolfe and me was on his sudden retirement from business and absence from the city, and on my presence at the scene of the murder and arrest as a material witness. There was also a report of an interview with Marko Vukcic, a Gazette exclusive, with Lon Cohen's by-line. I would have given at least ten to one that Lon had used my name in getting to Marko.
With the breakfast all down, including the coffee, which was pretty good, I was so interested in my reading that I didn't notice that my mate had finished with sports and proceeded to other current events. What got
